


Come Correct

by wearemany



Category: The Wire
Genre: Gen, M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We don't need no education. Back in the day at Tilghman Middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Correct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jae W.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jae+W.).



> Thanks to Sab and Corinna.

Mr. Z., the old white guy who teaches eighth-grade math at Tilghman Middle, has given up on all of them.

He's got his feet crossed on the big banged-up metal desk, the Sun headlines about another man murdered in the Terrace screaming out at the class, like they weren't there, like they all didn't use the sirens and search lights as excuse to stay out an hour later, to feel up their girl a little rougher, to sling another ounce of dope.

He assigned problems but ain't half the kids even bothering. Stringer watches Avon and Wee-Bay, heads together, telling another bunch of runts all about how they gonna run those towers one day soon, talking 'bout what territory is best, moves product fastest, gets them rich so they can bounce the fuck out and up. The other kids eat it up, would eat Avon up if they knew how, instead settle for calling back every thing he say.

Stringer did the problem set four months ago. He's been working his way through the book nights after his moms is asleep, ever since he realized Mr. Z. was just like all the other motherfuckers up in this school and never planned to bother teaching them shit he didn't have to.

Stringer watches Avon, like all the other kids, like the worried principals and police and the lady who slops lunches onto their trays. He knows Avon's half out the door, that they'll be lucky if they make it to high school before he makes his move, takes his place. He knows he and Wee-Bay and anyone else with a little muscle or a lotta balls will be up out there with him, hustling like all the other lucky ones. He's not so fool as to talk like he likes math, like he cares whether he graduates or not, but he's not so blind as to miss how all their business comes down to counting cash, measuring product, making money.

Avon catches him flipping through the last chapter of the book and stops talking for a second, juts his chin up sharp. "And String here --" He looks back at his flock to make sure they're listening. "This boy's goin' to be my man, ain't that right?"

Stringer nods, easy as all that. He knows where they're headed.

"Only one of you can keep a count without using his fingers," Avon laughs and slouches down in his chair. Stringer looks back down at his book and Avon says, "Yeah, my boy come correct."


End file.
